And wait until the nightingale grows dumber,
Listening debates not very wise or witty,
Ere patriots their true country can remember;—
But there's no shooting (save grouse) till September.
XLIX.
I've done with my tirade. The World was gone;
The twice two thousand, for whom Earth was made,
Were vanished to be what they call alone—
That is, with thirty servants for parade,
As many guests, or more; before whom groan